


Keeping the Cold

by CityStreets



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clint is confused about everything and everyone, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityStreets/pseuds/CityStreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn’t really know what he’ll say to his therapist when he sees them again. They’ll think he’s making it up if he tells them "Bucky Barnes gave me his jacket because I was cold on a mission. Then he kind of ended up with mine. And now everyone in the tower thinks we’re dating. Which we’re not, by the way. But we do make a fantastic shooting duo.”<br/>But hey, that’s pretty much exactly what's happened. He’ll just leave out the part that maybe he does, in fact, like Bucky an awful lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-divergence from the end TWS.  
> This whole fic came from the tumblr prompt “one giving the other their jacket and not getting it back from the other until it stops smelling like them”.

 

Of course, _of goddamn course,_ Clint’s thermal gear isn’t with him when they end up at a location that’s a few degrees lower than _freezing to death._

Hell, he isn’t even meant to _be_ here - here consisting of just one giant goddamn freezer - otherwise Clint would’ve packed his _goddamn thermal gear_. Steve’s the one that’s been chasing down Hydra, and Bucky recently joined him on the search after finally being deemed safe to do so.

Tony and Clint were in the tower, and Clint had been enjoying his reruns of shitty TV shows and reheated pizza, thank you very much. But Steve calls in Tony because he suspects the lead they’re following - a small weasel of a man that has his fingers in a fuckload of pies - will unravel into a giant nest of Hydra agents. Unfortunately for Clint and his pizza, Steve is right.

Tony drags Clint along because he claims that he doesn’t want to leave Clint alone in tower because he wants to return to it in one piece. Clint is pretty sure the man just wants someone to banter with.

Clint stops a majority of his complaining when Tony offers to buy him pizza from that really nice and expensive store a couple streets down. Also, Tony recently upgraded his hearing aids, so there’s an added bonus.

They meet with Steve and Bucky a few hours later. Clint isn’t a fan of being grabbed by the Iron Man suit for any longer than a couple minutes - much less a whole hour - and is able to bargain to take the private jet. Besides, the matter wasn’t so urgent that they were needed immediately.  
  
Clint has no idea where they are when they land. He had been going fine, until he nodded off for a little and suddenly they’re in the middle of the goddamn mountains, it looks like. It’s not quite mountains, really, just a whole shit load of rocks and steep climbs and drops that makes Clint’s leg muscles hurt looking at.

They land the jet a fair bit away from the actual meeting point, just to make sure the jet isn’t picked up on any radars, and Clint bites his tongue and lets Tony fly him the rest of the way with the suit, but grumbles once they’re back on the ground. He slides his earpiece in, tapping it to turn it on.

Steve and Bucky are waiting for them, almost a couple of miles away from the location of the base. Steve fills them in a bit more about the location, telling them about the patterns of the patrols. Clint doesn’t really pay attention - there’s a chill in the air, one that forces his attention to the fact he forgot his thermal uniform. And, you know, didn’t even have his jacket.

He only has himself to blame - and besides, it’s not like the others look affected by the cold. Granted, two are super-soldiers and one in a suit which Clint has no doubt has temperature control, but still. He’s done worse before, he can suck it up.

The base has a very high level of security, and the intel they need - the most important part of hitting these Hydra bases, to see if there’s any more projects, if they can find any other bases - is, naturally, on the other side of the base to the security room.

“When their security goes down, I’ll do my best to keep it that way - which, of course, means it’s staying down,” Tony offers, after having a few minutes to think and strategise, “but they’re probably going to realise what’s going on pretty quickly. We need to cover all our exits, and get someone to that intel.”

“Are you sure the intel is on the other side?” Clint asks, just needing to confirm. Tony’s face snaps towards him, and even the Iron Man helmet seems to be giving him an exasperated look.

“If their base is like all the other Hydra bases we’ve hit, and no doubt it is, then yes. And if not, I should be able to find it as long as I get into their security. Which I will. So don’t ruffle your feathers,” Tony replies, and Clint’s suddenly tempted to fish out his special EMP arrow.

Before he can make a move to do anything though, Steve steps in. “Alright, let’s get going before the sun sets. We’ve already scouted the area, and there’s entrances near the security room and some other ones near the other side, where the intel should be. Like Tony said, they’ll realise what’s going on pretty quick. So we need to do this fast.”

Steve hesitates, and Clint barely catches the quick glance that he shoots Bucky. “There’s five exits. Tony, you cover the one near the security room. I’ll be covering the cargo door that’s near that side.”

Steve gestures towards Clint. “Both of you are covering the other three doors.”

So basically Clint is going to be paired up with the other assassin. _Oh boy._

And sure, Bucky is cool enough, he supposes. Cool in the way that he just kind of stands side-by-side with Steve constantly, doesn’t say a word around the others, and pretty much always seems to be glaring at everyone and everything underneath his strands of hair. Yeah, all around cool guy, in the same sense of _holy-shit-this-dude-is-fucking-terrifying._

Clint does, in a way, at least understand him. If anyone in the tower, other than Steve, has shared life experiences, it’s probably him. The whole brainwashed-assassin kind of deal, after all.

 _Except, y’know, a couple of days probably doesn’t level up to Bucky’s 70 or so years,_ he tells himself.

Steve’s demeanour changes, Clint notices. The way he describes it as Steve Rogers changing into Captain America - he's in charge, objective to his mission now.

“We get the security down first, then we’ll push our way through the doors. We’re doing this as quietly and as quickly as we can, we don’t want them to get away with the intel. Let’s go,” Steve commands, and all of them move to do so.

Clint follows behind Bucky, who has taken to lead to show him his location, as he and Steve had been scouting the area.

“You’re on the cargo door,” Bucky informs him. His voice is rough, scratchy - he hasn’t been talking, and Clint’s probably heard maybe three words from the guy in total before right now.

“Where are you?” Asks Clint in return, and Bucky looks over his shoulder to give Clint a quick look - one that Clint can’t quite place, which is somewhat frustrating, and also somewhat endearing.

_What, what - what the fuck, Barton. You did not think that. Nope, that is a steam train of thought going past the stations of FuckthatVille and YouHaveNoSelfPreservation-Town. Do not get on that train for the love of fudgesticks._

“Emergency fire door,” Bucky replies, and Clint swears there’s a tone of amusement. “There’s a door a bit further up than that, but it won’t be an issue.”

Clint nods, taking up to swinging his arms back and forth in larger motions as he walks. The chill in the air is becoming more prominent the further they go, and the sun that’s beginning to set isn’t helping him either.

He jams his hands under his armpits eventually, because hey, while he can still do it, it’s no fun shooting an arrow with numb fingers. He's infinitely glad that he brought along his compact bow, able to stash it in his backpack, meaning he can jam both hands. It's still stupidly cold, though.

 _Should’ve gone with the long sleeve design, Hawkeye,_ he berates himself. _Or should’ve, y’know, packed your thermals. Gloves, even, would’ve been a great idea._  
_  
_ It only gets colder as they walk. Turns out the base is goddamn huge, and the meetup point they were walking from seemed to be pretty goddamn far as well. The climbs up the rocky terrain also suck and really all in all, it does not equal for a fun walk.

His toes have a weird tingling sensation to them - feeling like they are frozen and melting at the same time. He grits his now chattering teeth and continues on without a word. Bucky, it seems, doesn’t notice the cold. However, he is wearing a few more amount of layers - a long black shirt under his own uniform, one that covers his left arm, as well as a jacket and a snow-jacket on top of that.

Yeah, he’s prepared for the weather. Clint is _not,_ in his stupid short sleeves and pants and boots that are definitely _not_ temperature controlled and his stupid forgotten jacket. God, he can’t believe he forgot even his damn jacket.

He trudges along behind Bucky, trying his best to preserve his warmth. There’s almost nothing though, and even the hands under his armpit are freezing cold and feel like they might just fall off.

By now, on a long walk like this, he’s usually be bored enough to even try and strike up a conversation with the flipping _Winter Soldier,_ but worry that his voice will be grumbly and shaky from the cold stops him.

“Nearly there,” Bucky finally says, after climbing a particularly steep incline, and Clint doesn’t reply, hauling himself up over the final part of the climb. Bucky turns his head back to check on him, probably because he expects at least a grunt, which Clint doesn’t deliver.

“Jesus, Barton,” Bucky then says, sounding a little breathless. Which is strange enough because Bucky Barnes doesn’t get breathless on a two mile walk, that’s for sure.

Clint looks up from his feet, noticing that Bucky has stopped. Bucky then reaches up to his earpiece comm, tapping twice in succession - the signal for the mic to cut, but not the speakers. Alright, _what._ Clint, in what he feels is probably a stupid move, does the same.

“Where’s your jacket?” Bucky asks, shocking Clint out of his confusion.

“My - what?” Clint stammers, dumbfounded. His voice is shaky and grumbly, as he had feared.

“Jacket. I thought it’d be in that backpack of yours,” Bucky repeats, gesturing to Clint’s backpack.

Clint laughs nervously. “That’s just uh. That’s carrying my bow and some arrows.”

Bucky seems stumped, which Clint finds shocking enough to be stumped himself. They both just look like a couple of stumped, dumbfounded idiots, Clint thinks.

“Christ, here,” is all Bucky says, and Clint stares in confusion as he moves to unzip his snow-jacket. He passes it to Clint, who takes it without thinking, and then ends up staring at the jacket in his hands in confusion while Bucky holds up a hand in a signal to wait.

Then Bucky moves to unzip the other jacket he's wearing, and that's when Clint’s brain finally catches up and his mouth finally works.

“Wait, wait dude-” and oh boy, he just called the Winter Soldier dude hahaha he’s _dead._

Bucky pauses, looking up at Clint questioningly, whose brain stops working again.

“Won't _you_ be cold?” Clint is able to manage, to which Bucky just decides to continue unzipping his jacket.

Bucky just shrugs as he hands the other jacket over to Clint, who now is just standing there like even more of a confused idiot while holding two of Bucky’s jackets. Bucky then takes back the snow-jacket, looking expectantly at Clint.

“I'm wearing thermal,” Bucky explains, then the corner of his mouth turns up into what Clint can swear is a smile. “And ‘sides, I've got one less limb to keep warm.”

Clint really doesn't really think it's appropriate of him, but he can't do anything to stop the snort escaping. _And Bucky was smiling right? That's good, that's definitely good._ He seems a little less terrifying now.

“Has your brain frozen? Put the damn jacket on,” Bucky then says, but it's not _harsh,_ not reprimanding - if anything, he sounds amused.

Clint is honestly just so confused by the whole situation that he does so without really thinking about it, putting his backpack down and sighing with contempt as the sharp bite of the chill is edged off as the jacket slips on. Bucky then hands the snow-jacket over, gesturing for Clint to put it on as well.

Clint hesitates, but does so. Both jackets are a bit too big, the jacket sleeves falling past his wrists. But they're _warm,_ the body heat from Bucky still lingering.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Clint nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks,” he says, and Bucky returns a small smile. They both flick on their mics again.

“Lead the way.” Clint gestures forward, and Bucky turns on his heels as Clint picks up his backpack.

As they're walking, it's not just the heat that Clint notices from the jackets. He's been trained enough to use all of his senses, no matter the conditions, and that means that while his nose feels like a triangle iceberg on his face, he can still smell.

And he can smell the scent of the jackets - the scent of _Bucky._ It's not easy to describe, to break down exactly what he’s able to smell. But, for Clint, it brings up the visual idea of a burning log fire in the corner of an old, dusty room.

It's anything but unpleasant, though. There's something that feels like _home_ to him about it - which is ironic, considering Clint Barton has only ever hidden in old houses with a small shitty fire in the cold when he’s hiding or on the run.

And Bucky seems to be anywhere but home, right now. He's still working out his life, his memories, his Bucky Barnes parts and his Winter Soldier parts. Home is, Clint doesn’t doubt, something that Bucky hasn’t experienced for a long time. 90-something years, really.

But the scent doesn’t feel relatable to that. Instead, it reminds him of warm nights in the tower, all of them in the lounge room watching some shitty grade-B action film, of popcorn fights - _and shut up, they're all mature, mostly functioning adults_ \- and the rush when Loki’s icy possession had been finally flushed from his mind.

So the jackets are nice and comforting and, above all, _warm._ Clint has no idea how these things are associated with the Winter Soldier, but hey, Clint no longer feels like he's about to freeze to death so he's in no place to question it.

They split off once they reach Clint’s door, and Clint is left with the urge that maybe he should've said something - maybe another _thanks,_ something as easy as _good luck_ or _stay safe._ But he doesn't, and shakes it off as best he can. _Wishing the Winter Soldier good luck is dumb, you idiot_.

The mission, for once, goes off without a hitch.

* * *

 

The night they get back, despite the success of the mission, Clint has a really shitty night.

The cold lingers, beginning to wrap itself around him on the walk back to the private jet. And there was no more mission to focus on, nothing drawing his attention away from the fact that it was cold, _god it’s so cold, the same as Loki’s touch._

Tony had cranked up the heating on the jet, enough so that within ten minutes Clint had shredded the snow-jacket. But the chill was lingering inside of him, wrapped around his mind, leaving his chest tight and his heart beating too fast.

Feeling irritable at even the idea of conversation - something he was usually always up for at the end of a successful mission - he had settled on the couch, leaving the others to take up the luxurious chairs. He closed his eyes, but sleep wasn’t happening any time soon.

He conveniently ‘awoke’ at the end of the flight, and was the first to get off. He scurried up pretty quickly to his floor in the tower - and screw paperwork, he'll do that later - avoiding any contact with anyone.

So, here he is now, sitting on the ground with his knees drawn up, hands holding his bow between his legs, head tilted forehead to rest on the top of his bow. The heating in his room is blasting and the curtains are closed, despite it being night time, because he wants to shut out the rest of the world.

And it's a really shitty night. Which sucks, really, because he's been going so well, almost a month without his nerves being shot to all hell, without thinking of stupid mind possession and stupid trickster demigods.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, rolling the bow back and forth in his hands. But his room is getting too cramped, and he keeps seeing flashes of blue in the corner of his vision despite knowing it’s _nothing,_ the lights are a dull white. Nothing blue about them.

A shaky breath escapes and he clenches his eyes shut, trying to even out his breathing. It's been even longer since he's had a panic attack, and he would like to keep it going that way, thank you.

Eventually, he gets up, the enclosed room beginning to work up his nerves even more. He heads towards the elevator, forcefully pressing the number for the training floor. His hands are shaking, and he clenches the hand not holding the bow.

He needs to shoot something, a _lot_ of somethings. The training floor has a good range for it, and not to mention, Tony recently updated the brutal “Endless” setting ever since Clint and Natasha proved it wasn't.

The elevator starts moving, and he glances down at the bow in his right hand. He promptly notices that he’s still wearing Bucky’s jacket.

_Oh Jesus Christ he’s still wearing Bucky’s jacket._

The freakout happens immediately. _Being asleep on the plane,_ he recounts _-_ Bucky couldn’t really ask for it back then. But he probably wants the damn jacket back now, _Barton, you idiot. Now how the hell are you meant to give it to him?_

Clint isn’t a fan of the idea of having to go up to Bucky for no other reason than “ _hey sorry I basically hoarded your jacket but here you go you can have it back now while I awkwardly slink away to the nearest air vent.”_

So, yeah, not a plan he should probably go with if he ever wants to look the dude in the eyes again.

It’s fine, he tells himself. Just gotta leave it somewhere convenient and _never bring it up again. Ever._

Which is a great plan, it’s a fine plan, it’s a goddamn bullet-proof plan.

Until the elevator door opens to the training floor and shows that Bucky Barnes is right in the middle of it.

“Aw, _world,”_ Clint sighs quietly to himself, tempted to just press the door closing button on the elevator and go back up to his floor. But it’s too late - Bucky turns, noticing him before he leans forward to press the button.

He can’t go up now, it’s too late, his fate is sealed. He’s doomed. He trudges forward, albeit reluctantly, keeping a tight grip on his bow.

He can move past Bucky to the shooting range without saying anything, maybe the man won’t notice, maybe he won’t even realise Clint still has his jacket on. They can go about their separate ways and just train in silence.  
  
Bucky has a habit of shattering Clint’s ideals, apparently.

“Can’t sleep?” The other asks, grunting as he starts again on punching bag **.**

“Something like that,” Clint responds, and _please be it, please just let that be it or else a sinkhole better swallow him right up right about now, thanks._

He grabs some arrows from the weapons range, and his ideal plan is going well right up until Clint scrolls through the control board and sets up the range for ‘Endless’ on the highest difficulty he can. Once he hits it, Bucky stops punching the bag.

“Endless mode?” Bucky asks, clearly doubtful. Clint knows that Bucky has only had one go at the range, on the Hard setting, as all the attempts and results for everyone over time come up after each round.

“Tony upgraded it, so I can only hope it is this time,” Clint replies, looking back over his shoulder at Bucky, who has his full attention on Clint. Shut up, his cheeks are _not_ red.

“Mind if I join?” Bucky casually requests, but stays where he is, apparently weary if Clint accepts the offer.

_Alright, what the hell._

_“S_ ure. Jarvis, co-op,” Clint says it a lot more confidently than he feels, and Bucky nods before walking over to the weapons range, picking out an semi-automatic rifle and another gun, as well as extra ammo, and standing to the left of Clint.

A hand wave brings up a small table to either side of them. Clint lays out his extra arrows on his own table, and Bucky does the same with his bullets.

“You ready?” Clint asks, getting an arrow ready. He hasn’t got any of his special arrows, because last time he unleashed an explosion-tip arrow, the range had retaliated by adding a few more hundred targets. That wasn’t so much fun.

“Are you?” Bucky quips back, and Clint just huffs in amusement.

“More ready than a 90-something year old man,” Clint fires right back, then looks over to make sure he hasn’t offended Bucky or anything because _oh boy he really needs to think before he says dumb shit to an armed assassin, Jesus Christ._

Thankfully, Bucky just looks right back and gives him a small smile, his eyes challenging. “I guess we’ll see, then.”

The game takes that moment to start, the digital countdown projecting numbers down from 10. Clint draws his bow, waiting for the digitally projected targets to come forward. Clint knows they have a blue tint to them, but if he just focuses on the targets, just focuses on hitting each one, focuses on the draw of his bow and the release of the arrow, it shouldn’t be a problem.

The round starts, and the digital scenery projects around them, creating walls and other places for the targets to emerge anywhere from. Both of them focus, firing as the targets come rushing out.

“So, not sleeping tonight at all, then?” Bucky eventually asks as he reloads, shooting one on the far left side just in time.

“Why sleep when I can shoot things,” Clint answers, shooting another two simultaneously as he does so.

“Probably not a healthy coping mechanism,” Bucky hums, shooting down the last standing figure, leaving them only a couple of seconds to recoup before the next wave of targets hit.

And Clint realises that Bucky _gets it._ Of course he does - all of them are prone to nightmares, after all, of course Bucky knows why he's down here. And Bucky _,_ of course he's prone to them. Decades of brainwashing and mind wiping and being the hunter and then the hunted. Clint has a hard time even wanting to think about what the guy would dream about.

“ _Probably._ But here we are,” is all Clint says, letting an arrow loose as the first target appears for the next round.

“But here we are,” Bucky echoes.

It's silent except for the sounds of their weapons firing, their grunts and heavy breaths. Bucky’s rifle clicks empty, and before he’s even able to drop it and go for his other gun, a target is on top of him.

The round will be over if the target lands a blow on Bucky, but thankfully the other is able to parry a punch and throws a knife right between its eyes, sending it dissolving into thousands of pieces before all falling to the floor, disappearing.

“I think I'm running out of arrows,” Clint mutters, looking at the very limited amount on his table as another wave is about to strike. He really should’ve just grabbed the special arrows and damn the consequences.

“That's a problem,” Bucky replies, “But it's not mine.”

“It’s co-op. If I go down, so do you,” Clint informs him, somewhat smugly, and Bucky groans.

“I'll cover you, if you go fetch some arrows,” Bucky tells him, and Clint takes a moment to hesitate.

He doesn't _like_ relying on others, he likes being up top and being able to call the shots and being able to watch other’s backs. He especially doesn't like that he's being covered because he's run out of things to shoot the targets with.

But for some reason, he makes the move, running forward with an arrow in hand. He has enough arrows to last the round if he's careful, if he just stabs instead of shoots for a couple, but there's something that makes him sprint forward, moving towards the largest cluster of arrows he can see.

A target appears in front of him and he swings, stabbing the target with the arrow in his hand. He doesn't watch it dissolve, just reaches down and grabs as many arrows as he can, chucking them roughly into his quiver.

He hears Bucky’s shooting, and as he's standing up sees two more that are running towards him dissolve. He's about to turn around, ready to stand back at Bucky’s side, and Bucky catches his eye -

And his feet are moving, sprinting, and he's nearly there, back at Bucky’s side -

Then Bucky’s gun clicks. No bullet fires. _Empty._

Clint turns just in time to stab the target behind him, then continues moving forward.

“Are you _kidding?”_ Clint asks, once he's back at Bucky’s side and covering as Bucky reloads. He sees Bucky shrug in the corner of his eyes.

“Decided to cover your ass instead of reloading,” is all Bucky says, and Clint just laughs.

“Well, it didn't work so well, but thanks.” Clint grins, and he feels Bucky try to elbow him in his back.

And it's easy, Clint realises. It's easy with Bucky. Because he gets it, he understands that some nights are just not meant for sleeping and sometimes you just need to shoot something. It's easy conversation, and even the quieter moments are just as easy, just as relaxing.

They shoot for a long time, until an unlucky moment where too many have rushed on Bucky’s left, and he’s forced to engage in close combat. Which is going fine, Clint’s not concerned, until he's back down to his last arrow.

“Aw,” Clint mumbles, grabbing the arrow and intending to use it to stab the targets with again. He takes down a couple that have rushed at him, and Bucky is down to his last target. But Clint knows it won’t be enough to last the round, and the seconds between the rounds is getting shorter. He doesn’t have time to sprint back out, and Bucky won’t have enough bullets to shoot the huge amount of targets that are yet to come.

“What is it?” Bucky grunts, and Clint looks over his shoulder to flash him a smile.

“I think the awesome run has come to an end,” Clint mourns, and Bucky shoots Clint his own look of _seriously?_

And, as if knowing they’re about to take a final stand, a blue tidal wave of targets suddenly rush at them. Literally coming out of _everywhere,_ just as one huge army.

“Jesus,” Clint says, because _alright, where were all those fuckers hiding anyway -_

Bucky lets out an appreciative whistle. “I take it this didn't happen before?”

“Nope,” Clint says, popping the ‘p’. Damn it, he at least wanted to see how many he could’ve taken out before he went down. That’s not really a possibility with the ginormous wave.

Here's the thing. Clint totally has plans to sweep out his arms and say something like “I welcome the embrace of death” or something as equally dramatic instead, because _why not_. Maybe fall to the ground, make some dumb dying noises.

That's not what happens. Instead of doing that, his brain goes “how about we not do that” and instead decides to freak out because it's too much blue, a wave - overwhelming and he _can't stop it, he can't stop it and it's reaching him, it's creeping into his heart -_

“Shit,” he gasps, “Jarvis, end it, _stop.”_

The wave abruptly does so, disappearing from the top to bottom as if Clint has simply closed a screen. The leaderboard flashes up for a moment, but Clint doesn’t bother to read it.

“That sucked,” Clint is able to mutter, feeling his body sag forward, fingers gripped tight around both his bow and the arrow.

Bucky doesn't say anything, just waits until Clint has let out a long groan and begins to walk back over to the weapons range, putting away his singular arrow that he has left. As far as Clint’s concerned, Jarvis will figure out a way to collect his other arrows. Bucky puts away his own weapons a few seconds later.

“So, I take it that it isn't thousands of targets that suck,” Bucky questions, glancing curiously at Clint, who does his best to nonchalantly shrug and give a lopsided smile.

“It did suck, and Tony sucks for making that. But no. It's just -” He trails off, rolling back his shoulders, staring intently at the weapons.

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. _He gets it_ , Clint tells himself again. Clint shoves his hands under his armpits, and takes a deep breath, turning to Bucky.

Abruptly, he realises he still has Bucky’s jacket on. _Oh boy. Okay._

Bucky’s now looking at him, and Clint knows that he’s probably looking at his jacket and is like _‘goddamnit why hasn’t this idiot given me it back I just want the jacket back.’_

Clint moves his hands, fingers fumbling on the zipper. “Ah- God, sorry, you probably want this back, right? I swear I didn’t mean to keep it but I just forgot and oh boy here you go - “

His mouth stops running when Bucky reaches his left hand out, but stops halfway and leaves his hand in between them, hesitating. His fingers twitch a second, and Clint watches with fascination as the metal extends to him for a second, but then drops quickly back to Bucky’s side a couple of seconds later.

“You look like you need it a bit more,” is all Bucky says, then turns away. “It’s a little cold in here, after all.”

Clint looks down at his fingers that are resting on the zipper that’s now unzipped halfway. They’re shaking, he realises, and Christ that stupid wave of blue, one stupid colour and he’s back to shaking again. It’s really not pleasant to know that despite his month, it seems like he’s not getting goddamn anywhere with progress if one stupid colour and a temperature drop sends him back to square one.

And Bucky has to know he’s not shaking from the cold, especially with a jacket on and just going all those rounds. But Clint finds himself glad that Bucky says it, that he doesn’t ask or question Clint why he’s shaking. Instead, he offers him a way out.

Plus, Clint gets to keep burrowing the jacket.

Bucky weakly smiles at him, and turns around, and all Clint can think is _okay so Bucky Barnes just smiled at me. Why did he smile at me I just stole his jacket basically._

Bucky walks back over to the punching bag, and Clint stands there, watching him. He then, promptly, figures that’s probably very creepy of him and _oh man the Winter Soldier thinks you’re a creepy, weird dude now who likes watching him creepily. Yay._

He zips the jacket back up slowly, his fingers more steady. He’s recovering quicker than he used to, at least, but there’s still something unsettled in his stomach, leaving him feeling out of sorts.

He’s not up for any more shooting, because the wave of panic that hit him has now drained him, and his brain promptly gives him the visual of sitting on the couch and watching Dog Cops. Which, hey, is pretty good, so he’ll go with it.

Walking to the elevator without saying anything to Bucky feels strange to him. He should say something, he should definitely say something right now to try and salvage his not-creepy reputation, but no words come.

But when he’s in the elevator, the door about to close, Bucky meets his eyes. Clint is able to mouth a thank-you, and briefly sees Bucky smile a little once again, this time a little bigger. Clint does _not_ have butterflies because Clint Barton is _not_ a teenager.

He goes back up to his floor, stripping off his equipment and clothes, as well as taking out his hearing aids. The couch dips familiarly under his weight, and he grabs the remote before lying down on the couch, dragging the blanket from on top of the couch to over himself.

Dog Cops begins to play, and he settles more comfortably on the couch as the subtitles play. His limbs are heavy, and he feels his chin sink down into his chest.

A smell hits him, and it takes him a second before he realises he knows it. It’s the same smell of _Bucky,_ lingering strongly on the jacket. _He must really like the jacket,_ Clint thinks to himself, considering that the scent has remained.

_It’s probably his favourite. Oh my God, you’re on your fucking couch with Bucky Barnes’ favourite jacket on._

It doesn’t send him into a panic, though, like he expects. Instead, he feels comforted by it, purposely sinking his face deeper into the jacket to catch more of the scent. _Okay, maybe a little bit creepy._

He’s hit by the thought that there’s a hood on the jacket, and he quickly fumbles to pull it up, trying to bury his head into it. It’s just so comforting and warm and _nice_ -

Probably things that the Winter Soldier is not. But Bucky is no longer the Winter Soldier - or the old James Buchanan Barnes, for that matter - but he’s someone that is a part of both, but is also someone new. And the scent seems to reflect that.

Before he knows it, he’s closing his eyes and falling asleep.

* * *

 

He totally means to give the jacket back the next day.

But he oversleeps way too late in the day and despite the crick in his neck, he hasn’t slept that well in a long, long time.

The jacket, though, has stopped smelling like Bucky. Clint’s not sure if it’s because he’s gotten too used to it and can’t pick it up, or if he’s now imprinted his own scent on there that has overpowered it.

Either way, he decides it does need a wash. Would be the polite thing to do, send it back all nice and clean and act like he didn’t just try and suffocate himself inside of it just to catch that scent.

Begrudgingly, he takes it off and puts it gently into the washing machine, then heads to the bathroom.

He makes himself look a bit more presentable and more sociable for the day, despite it already being past midday, and throwing on his normal light grey jacket over his purple shirt. It’s comforting, but he realises it’s not as comfortable as Bucky’s. _It’s not yours, you have to give it back, Barton._

Some days, he can get away with doing nothing but marathoning Dog Cops. And that would be his usual plan, considering he has nothing better to do right now, but he’s heard Hill is coming into the tower and he can never miss a good opportunity to mess with her.

He heads down to the communal area at Jarvis’ mention that Hill is down there. He hasn’t got a plan of attack, but he figures his presence annoys her enough so there’s probably that.

What Jarvis has failed to mention, however, are the other three presences. Steve, Bucky, and _Fury._ It’s tense, Clint can tell immediately, and when the elevator doors open all the heads snap towards him.

He takes a quick surveillance of the room before quickly and repeatedly jamming his finger on the close door button, trying to figure out where to go because _what the fuck he is not dealing with this_. He decides for one of the uppermost floors, heading up and thinking back on what he saw.

Fury, he saw Fury, what the _hell._ As far as Clint knew, the man was hiding out well underground, also trying to take out the other Hydra agencies that were hidden somewhere in Europe. He definitely didn’t expect to see him at the tower.

They had been huddled around the kitchen island, Clint reflects, Steve leaning forward on the table and looking very tense. Pissed off, for some reason. Bucky was behind him, leaning against a wall, looking more like he was ready to spring into action at any moment.

Clint doesn’t have to imagine too hard about what they’re talking about. Unfortunately, Bucky has been under a lot of people’s gazes, and even after being confirmed and allowed to follow Steve on his little quest, it went against many people’s wishes.

They had done the same to Clint for a while. Monitor him, after everything. Tried to make sure he has no triggers, nothing left, no trace. He doesn’t - well, nothing under Loki’s control, at least. But it has been a long ride of trying to be trusted again.

 _Probably want to bring him in,_ Clint thinks. A psych evaluation, maybe.

It doesn’t help Clint to wonder about it, though, and he decides to just wait and see if he can find out later. For now, he’s got a date with the afternoon sun and the outside.

Tony has tried to stop him numerous times from climbing onto the big ‘A’ outside the tower. He’s done a good job of making it a challenge, but Clint maneuvers his way up anyway, sitting on top of the white ring and leaning to his left to rest on the side of the top of the ‘A’.

He can still see the streets pretty clearly, however the people look more like little smudges, yet he doesn’t doubt he can still hit them exactly where he wants to, if he tries.

It’s peaceful and quiet, and Clint sits there for a while, throwing up the hood of his jacket as the chilly wind breezes by him. He's entertained by watching a dog steal a hot dog right from a man’s hand, and the futile attempt afterwards to catch him.

He eventually climbs down, making his way out to the landing pad. Bucky is standing there, and looking down at what Clint assumes is the people. There's only a slight head tilt to acknowledge that he knows Clint is there.

And Clint, for some reason he can't figure out, walks towards him, knocking back the hood of his jacket. The closer he gets, he notices that Bucky’s fingers are digging into his arms, leaving his flesh arm white as the metal presses down on it.

He doesn't have anything to say. He just stands next to Bucky, and notices that the pressure in Bucky’s fingers is slightly released from his arms.

He has no idea what they're watching, really. The people in his view are a lot more boring than anything, but when he glances quickly at Bucky he figures the man probably isn't watching them, isn't caring. He's in his own head.

The thought doesn't settle with him right. He shifts a little on his feet, and stares intently at the ground as he speaks.

“They'll back off eventually,” Clint says and that was really not what he wanted to say but, well, it's out there now. He feels Bucky look at him, sizing him up quickly. Clint just stares at the streets below.

Bucky snorts, disbelieving. “Sure.”

Clint lets out a steady stream of breath. “Right now, it probably feels like they're constantly pestering you and poking and prodding. Even though you're cleared, it doesn't feel like it because they're still constantly watching. They don't trust you, and probably never will, but they'll begin to back off. Maybe not completely, but you'll get some breathing room.”

“ _I_ don't trust me,” Bucky mumbles, and Clint sighs. He knows the words too well. Clint lets the words hang in the air for a bit, trying to think of his response. What did his own therapist say when he admitted the same thing?

“And you won't, for a long time. But they're not going to start trying to trust you if you won't trust yourself,” Clint offers, hand rubbing his neck, unsure of himself suddenly. It doesn’t feel like his place to be telling Bucky this, feels like the other needs to hear it from Steve or his own therapist or really anyone but Clint, who grows increasingly uncomfortable.

“What’d you do?” Bucky asks quietly, after a moment of silence. His head turns back towards Clint, who is still staring at the ground.

“Hm?” Clint hums, snapping himself out of his slight daydream, and not having caught on properly to Bucky’s meaning.

“You seem to know about this. Personally. So what’d you do?” Bucky asks again, and Clint feels a little like he's been sucker punched.

Bucky seems to catch on, standing up straighter and still staring intently at Clint for a moment, then breaking his gaze and looking down at the streets. “Sorry,” he mumbles after a moment, the words almost lost to the breeze.

Clint shakes his head a little. “It’s alright,” he replies, looking up and at Bucky for the first time, “Well, at least that's what my therapist says.”

Bucky laughs, suddenly. It’s short and a bit rough, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. Clint lights up, then ducks his head back down to make sure Bucky doesn’t catch his eye or something and Clint awkwardly has to confess that hey, he’s really not as scary as Clint originally thought.

And even though Clint sure has had enough of his fair share of therapy sessions, and he’s doing pretty well, he’s still glad that Bucky doesn’t bring the topic of Clint’s own happenings back up.

“They keep tellin’ me that it wasn't _me_ , when I did those things under Hydra. But it _was_ me. I might not have had control or thoughts, but I was in my body and I remember _everything_. It’s like waking up from a really shitty dream and realising it was all real and - and it was me,” Bucky admits, all of it coming out quietly and rushed and Clint’s pretty sure Bucky’s therapist would have cried in joy if he heard him.

And then promptly Clint realises he is the one that Bucky is confessing all this to. Considering the guy barely said more than necessary usually, this is a serious turnaround and he’s doing it with _Clint._

 _Oh man,_ he has no idea what to say. He looks at Bucky for a moment, then back down at the streets.

“Yeah,” is all Clint can say, barely hearing it himself. Bucky seems to, though, sighing and letting his weight collapse forward for a moment, which makes Clint immediately panic and think _holy shit the Winter Soldier is about to fall off the fucking Avengers tower._

He rights his balance though, and Clint just tries to calm his heart down that’s suddenly gone frantic. They both stand there, side by side, staring down at the streets below.

“It's cold up here,” Bucky admits, breaking the lull that has fallen over them.

“Aren't you meant to be The Winter Soldier?” Clint jokingly challenges, a mischievous smile on his lips. Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Doesn't mean it's not goddamn cold, Barton.” To prove his point, his arms wrap around his midsection.

“You got me there,” Clint laughs a little, then looks back at the inside of the tower. He didn't mean to be outside this long, and standing next to Bucky like this is seriously making him question where he stands with the other. They’re friends, right? Maybe? Would Bucky call them friends?

Clint doesn’t like being on unfamiliar ground and he groans at his thoughts, rubbing his hands over his face. When he looks over at Bucky, the other is staring at him a little strangely. Right, Clint forgot the guy was literally _standing right next to him._

 _Whoops._ “I, uh, have to go see Hill for a briefing,” he stumbles out, and God that sounds like absolute bullshit and Bucky definitely knows it and he’s just tragically burying himself deeper the more he stands here and lets the awkwardness fester.

“I’m going inside,” Clint says quickly, turning around on his heels. Bucky grunts in acknowledgment, and Clint doesn’t exactly know why he does it, but he’s suddenly turning around and quickly unzipping his jacket. He then just launches it right at Bucky.

Bucky, thankfully, catches it before Clint can think _oh God I just threw my fucking favourite jacket off the side of a like 100 story building._ Bucky stares at it questioningly, then looks up at Clint just as confused.

“It’s cold,” is all Clint is able to say before basically speed walking as fast as he can back inside because _holy hell he just threw his jacket at Bucky Barnes because the guy said it was cold._

“See you around, Barton,” he hears Bucky shout, and doesn’t acknowledge it, just continues making his way as fast as he can to the elevator.

He slumps into it, turning around just in time as the doors close to see Bucky sliding the jacket on.

* * *

 

A couple of days later, around midnight, Natasha is in his room.

He doesn’t know that she’s invited herself in, of course. He walks in after shooting a bit down at the range because he still isn’t sleeping properly, and he’s just walking past his little kitchen area when suddenly he knows someone is behind him.

His hearing aids aren’t in, so he doesn’t hear them, but he feels their presence slink up behind him. He doesn’t think, just acts, and turns, ducking down low and going for a swing at their stomach. They dodge back just in time, and Clint is just able to think _oh hey that shirt looks mildly familiar I know who this is_ before his feet are swept out from him.

“Oh my God Tasha, what the hell,” he wheezes, looking up at the ceiling, and a smug Natasha steps into his vision. She must know he hasn’t got his hearing aids in, because she just shakes her head at him in exasperation, then helps him up.

She walks over to one of the drawers that hold a pair of hearing aids, and she hands them to him while he tries to slow his heart rate and his rush of adrenaline.

“That was sloppy,” she reprimands, once he’s got both of them in. He sighs, going over to his couch and flopping down on it.

“You stole that shirt from me a month ago,” he reasons, noticing he’s probably about to get hit for his whining tone. He’s right, managing to swerve his head just in time to avoid Natasha’s hand.

“Someone could’ve taken it from me,” Natasha responds, walking around to the other side of the couch and tapping Clint’s leg to get him to move them up, giving her some room.

Clint just snorts and flaps a weak hand about. “I thought I was meant to be the dumb one in this relationship.”

“Stop calling yourself dumb, it’s rather tiring,” she sighed, leaning back against the couch, nose scrunching in disgust when she sees the two-day old coffee mug on the table.

“I don’t remember inviting you in to come and judge my lifestyle,” Clint comments, kicking off his boots and then resting his feet up on Natasha’s thighs.  
  
“Because you didn’t. Do I ever need an invite, though?”

“Point,” because it’s true, he’s got his door open for her no matter what, “ _but,_ Jarvis usually tells me you’re in.”  
  
“Told him not to. You weren’t wearing your hearing aids outside of your room, just wanted to make sure you weren’t going soft.”

“Jeez, Tasha, it’s midnight, give a guy a break. I just went down shooting is all.”

She’s quiet, and he gives her a couple seconds before looking over at her. “What’s going on?” He asks, noticing the tension in her body. Unnoticeable to any that aren’t Clint.

Her face scrunches a little, and then she exhales, the tension releasing from her shoulders. “I overheard something in the kitchen. Rogers and Barnes didn’t know I was there, but they were talking.”

Worry suddenly wraps its way into Clint’s chest. “What about?” He asks, tone quick and a little bit too demanding. She shoots him a look, but it fades quickly.

“Barnes wants to go in for the psych evaluation as quickly as possible, said co-operation is the best way for them to get off his back,” She answers, and Clint raises an eyebrow.

“He might have a point,” Clint comments, because while he hadn’t been resisting when he did his own evaluation, that didn’t mean he made it easy for them - however, wanting to be left alone just meant that they viewed him even more warily anyway.

Natasha hums. “Maybe. I don’t know what they’re going to do with him. He’s been cleared for the field, but they’re worried there’s still programming left in there that they’ve missed and a Hydra agent can activate. He’s a big risk factor.”

“We all are,” Clint defends, then wonders why the hell he’s getting defensive about Bucky. _Dude can handle it himself._

Natasha hums something, but Clint doesn’t pick it up. The hearing aids Natasha passed him aren’t any of his three latest models, meaning the quieter noises are ones he won’t even hear.

“You’re going backwards, aren’t you?” Natasha questions, turning to him seriously. Clint nearly answers, because there’s nothing he can hide from her, but he sees Natasha’s fingers twitch slightly and the way she’s too tense and _this isn’t what she’s here to ask about._

“What do you want to really ask me, Nat?”

“You’re deflecting,” she shoots back, and he shrugs.

“You were deflecting first. What are you actually doing in my room at midnight?”

“Just answer why you’re going backwards. Then I’ll tell you,” Natasha bargains, and Clint huffs in annoyance.

It’s a trick his therapist likes to play. The whole bargaining game. Not to mention the whole agenda of “tell me why you think you feel this way” for whatever sets off his shitty days.

“If my psych is paying you right now, let it be known you better use that money to buy me a shit load of pizza rolls,” Clint tells her, and she flicks her wrist at him, disregarding the statement.

“I’m serious about that. But I’ve just had a couple of shitty weeks, a couple of triggers. The cold and the colour blue apparently sets me up for a few sleepless nights. I’ve been recovering a lot quicker though, so there’s that. Now, your turn to spill.”

Natasha mulls it over, then nods to herself. “I saw that Barnes was wearing something of yours. Your favourite jacket that you won’t even let _me_ touch.”

“You would burn it, that’s why,” Clint retorts, then the first sentence hits him.

“He looked like a mess, and was just clinging to the jacket,” she mutters, thankfully still loud enough for him to pick up. He doesn’t say anything, still churning over the fact Bucky seems to have taken a liking to his jacket - that, or he gave Clint his only jacket before.

“I also noticed that the jacket on the kitchen island is not yours,” Natasha states, and Clint looks over to his kitchen counter and remembers Bucky’s jacket is sitting right there.

She sounds like she’s just commenting that the weather is a bit cold outside, and not like she has noticed that Clint and Bucky have apparently started trading jackets and _oh my god she doesn’t think what I think she thinks, right?_

“I’m not having sex with the Winter Soldier,” Clint blurts out, and Natasha is now the one to raise an eyebrow.

“I never suggested that,” she says, calmly, but Clint can tell she’s more relaxed now. _She goddamn thought I was having sex with Bucky Barnes oh my lord._

“I know what it looks like but it’s not _anything,_ alright? I got cold on a mission and he gave me his jacket, and then he said he was cold so I gave him mine the other day. It’s nothing, the jacket is there so I can remember to give it back to him,” Clint says, speaking quickly and rapidly, half the words melding together.

Natasha is looking at the coffee table when Clint says it, but is now looking at Clint as if trying to figure something out. Whatever it is, she seems to find her answer and she just smiles a little to herself, leaving Clint completely befuddled.

“I think you’re good for each other. Now, I’m going to go crash in your bed and you can do whatever.” She pushes his feet off, standing up and stretching while Clint still sits there, confused at the sudden change and end of conversation.

He doesn’t mind that she’s taking his bed, of course, because it isn’t like he’s going to be able to sleep much anyway. Besides, it’s better on these kind of nights to be near the couch, trying to fall asleep to Dog Cops or something rather.

But the first sentence has him minding very much, considering he has no idea what it means except he thinks he does a little and _it better not because what. Just what._

“What the hell do you mean ‘we’re good for each other’?” He shouts over the couch, once his mouth has stopped opening and closing like a fish out of water. Natasha is just walking into the bedroom, and she stops right at the doorway and turns to Clint, grinning.

“Don’t forget to take out your hearing-aids,” she reminds him, completely ignoring his question.

“Why do I keep you around?” He mutters, turning back to sit normally on the couch.

“I deal with your emotional constipation, that’s why,” she yells back, and he whips around again, staring at the empty doorway.

“Are you _kidding?_ You hear that but don’t hear when I _shout?”_

“I heard you just fine, Clint. Goodnight, now.”

He lowers himself back down normally on the couch, grumbling under his breath as he takes out his hearing aids. The world is silent, leaving him to stew over their entire exchange for the night.

 

* * *

 

Natasha is gone by the morning, leaving Clint to wake up from Jarvis flashing the light on his ceiling.

“Yeah, yeah I’m up J,” he groans, blindly reaching over to the table beside him and fumbling for his hearing aids. The light stops flashing, and he slides in the hearing aids.

“What’s going on?” He asks, leaning forward with his feet resting on the floor and rubbing his eyes.

“Sir Rogers requests your presence on the training floor,” Jarvis tells him, and Clint sighs.

“He couldn’t wait until I was awake to do that?”

“It is midday, Mr Barton,” and is that a patronising tone he hears _what the hell Tony._

“Shit, yeah alright,” he groans, pushing himself up from the couch. It’s disorientating to be waking up this late, especially considering it wasn’t a nap. He looks over to the curtains that he definitely left open last night, so that the morning sun would wake him up before he went too deep into his own dreams.

But the curtains are pulled shut, letting in very minimal light. He figures it has to have been Natasha, doing it before she left, and he rolls his eyes. However, he feels a little better about the fact that he didn’t have any dreams, nothing to wake him up with the cold sweats and a scream on the tip of his tongue.

“Rogers offers coffee,” Jarvis informs, and Clint starts to move a little quicker, pulling open the curtains and then moving about to his bedroom to get into his drawers and find some decently clean clothes.

“I’ll be down there in a sec,” he tells Jarvis, and gets the reply of “Very well then sir.”

“Why are you _British_ why did Tony program you to talk like that,” Clint mumbles to himself, “Bloody hell,” he says, in his worst impression of the accent.

There’s no response from Jarvis, but he figures he’ll pay for the comment in one way or another later on.

He eventually goes down to the training floor, where Steve is currently hitting one of the punching bags. Clint doesn’t have his bow with him, knowing that there’s plenty of them in the weapons range, but he has a feeling Steve hasn’t called him down to spar.

Steve glances quickly at him, then gestures his head over to one of the benches on the side. There, on a bench, sits a takeaway cup from one of the coffee shops that always uses too much sugar, and Clint loves it. Not to mention the bagel. Bless Roger’s heart.

He sits down on the bench next to the cup, watching as Steve continues to hit the punching bag. He’s slowing down, though, and Clint waits silently, sipping the coffee, as Steve finishes up.

Finally, Steve stops the bag swinging with his open palm, then grabs a towel and pats down his face as he approaches Clint.

Honestly, Clint has no idea why he’s here. He knows Steve sometimes does the whole leader thing, where he checks in on everyone, but Clint isn’t doing _that_ bad lately. Average, really.

“They’ve taken him for the evaluation. They’re purposely going to try and find any more triggers, try and poke and prod at him for the results they want,” Steve tells him, surprising Clint with the topic.

Steve sits down heavily next to him, shoulders sagged forward and _aw, no, Captain America shouldn’t be looking like this._

“Buck said he wanted to do it. But they wouldn’t let me go with him, just in case they did trigger something and he ended up remembering his mission from D.C, **”** Steve continues, something sad and defeated in his voice and Clint’s pretty sure his heart is broken.

“But he said he wanted to do it, said it was his choice. And I have to respect that because he’s made so few of them, it’s not fair to take away the choices he can make,” Steve admits, dropping the towel onto the bench beside him.

“No offence, Cap, but why are you telling me this?” Clint asks, and that might’ve sounded a little insensitive but he’s honestly just so _confused._ Of all the people to be talking to this about, Clint definitely did not expect himself.

Steve just sighs and rolls his shoulders back, staring forward at the wall intently. “Because he told me to. I don’t know why.”

“They might not find any triggers,” Clint offers, mind whirring with possible explanations as to why Bucky wanted to tell him, “They won’t be able to keep him that long.”

“Well, Tony’s got a lot of protection happening. If anything happens, we’ll know about it immediately.”

Clint nods, feeling slightly more reassured. “That’s good. They’ve got their differences, but he’ll look after Bucky.”

“Seems like he’s not the only one,” Steve says, turning to Clint.

Clint immediately throws up his hands in a surrendering gesture when Steve gives him a _look._

It’s not patronising or anything, but it seems to be all-to-knowing and all too much like when Natasha decided to stare at him and figure out whatever her answer was to a mysterious question.

Steve smiles a little, then shakes his head.

“He had your jacket on, didn’t he? Last night,” Steve asks, and Clint just shrugs.

“I wouldn’t know,” Clint replies, because well, he isn’t _meant_ to know.

“It smelled like pizza. And dog.”

“I mean yeah, that’s probably mine then. Unless Tin Man decided to go out and feed some shelter dogs pizza or something.”

“Tin Man?”

Clint waves a hand about, dismissing Steve’s incredulous tone. “I don’t know, I’m running out of nicknames. Sam and I are competing for the best one.”

Steve then looks at him again and Clint feels like he needs to go sit in the corner, like he’s been caught throwing paper planes in class or something. “I shouldn’t have told you that, should I?”

Steve takes a moment to smile, and then laughs very weakly. “No, no, it’s good. It’s good that you’re comfortable enough with Bucky to say that stuff. I think he appreciates it as well.”

“He certainly wouldn’t appreciate Terminator,” Clint mutters, reaching out for his coffee and drinking a couple of mouthfuls.

“I don’t think he’d understand it, honestly.”

“I think he would understand it’s something he’d punch me in the face for anyway. Besides, the name Terminator is a little bit, well, easy to figure out.”

Steve hums. Clint’s fingers tap awkwardly against the styrofoam cup, and he tries hard to not think about that Steve is sitting right next to him, trusting him enough to talk about his thought-dead-but-came-back-70-years-later-as-an-assassin best friend.

“Why does he have your jacket?” Steve questions, but it's casual enough, nothing to make Clint think he needs to get out of the room immediately.

“We were talking and he said it was cold. Besides, it was only fair, he gave me his on that mission in the middle of nowhere,” Clint explains, and Steve laughs.

“Yeah, he told me about that,” Steve says quietly, and Clint nods, unsure of what else to do.

“So, you two swapped jackets,” Steve begins, and Clint knows exactly where the man is going and _are you kidding me Captain America thinks I'm having sex with his best friend oh my god._

“We are not banging!” Clint shouts, a little desperately, and Steve looks taken back for a moment before recomposing himself.

Steve clears his throat, then says, “If you were, that's okay. You're good for each other. Bucky needs as many people on his team as he can.”

Clint stands up, shaking his head. He turns to Steve, who just looks way too passive about this whole thing, he should be warning Clint that he shouldn't be thinking about doing anything because Bucky doesn't need another mess on top of everything else.

“For fudge sake, Steve, just because we gave each other our jackets does _not_ mean I am having sex with your best friend,” Clint bursts out, voice loud and maybe an octave higher than usual.

Steve just looks amused and damn him, what the hell.

“Besides, I'm _not_ good for him,” Clint finishes, taking a second before he walks off, seeing Steve’s amusement fall from his face, replaced by something that was almost guilty. Clint decides he shouldn’t give a damn because damn him, and strides towards the elevator, mashing the button onto his floor without turning around and looking at Steve.

“Sir Barton, you only need to press the button once,” Jarvis reprimands, and Clint just sticks up his middle finger. He doesn’t look back as the doors close.

He walks tiredly back to his bed once he's back on his floor, flopping down on it. The sheets are made, courtesy of Natasha, but he messes them up pretty quickly by throwing the blanket over himself, burying as far as he can into the bed.

It's the best place for him to think, other than the shower. His thoughts are whirling around, because damn Natasha and Steve for making him wonder just where he stands with Bucky.

He knows they're probably friends. Friends give each other clothes, right? Besides, when Clint gave Bucky his jacket he didn't think about it as an act of love or anything stupid like that, didn't think _perfect, this plan to give him my jacket will get me laid._

No, he gave it to him because he looked and said he was cold. Clint gave the jacket to him like any bro would, it was totally just a bro act, they're totally just bros.

But the question of _did Bucky do it as a bro act_ lingers. Clint tells himself of course, because they hadn't really even talked to each other, there was no way Bucky Barnes was doing it because of anything more.

He turns over in his bed, groaning in frustration. Because now the question _what if?_ is bouncing around in his head and wow okay, now his brain is telling him _hey Bucky is pretty attractive, I mean look at those eyes and jawline goddamn._

“No,” he groans out, rubbing his fingers into his head. “Get out of my brain, stupid visual images.”

He's not succeeding. He throws the blanket over his head, annoyed, and begins to mutter.

“No good for him,” he repeats to himself. Bucky has enough shit to deal with - like coping with his memories and his own identity as not the previous James Buchanan Barnes, or the Winter Soldier, and not as anyone _expects_ him to be.

Bucky definitely does not need Clint’s mess of a life to get muddled in there. Clint’s own nightmares and lack of sleep and his own experiences could influence him, make him even worse. It's better if they just remain bros.

_But -_

“Shut up,” he tells himself, having to throw back the blanket from his head after it gets a little too suffocating.

He lays tossing and turning for a while, groaning and muttering because this was just _stupid._ Acting like he was some 16 year old with some dumb stupid crush. He eventually flings the blanket off entirely, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and pushing himself up.

He paces the room, fingers twitching to get their grip on his bow. He finally walks over to it in the corner of his room, picking it up and sighing a little in relief at the familiar feeling.

Right. Time to shoot things. He always feels better when he shoots things. Because he's not thinking about dumb little crushes on legendary assassins. Nope.

But the training floor just reminds him of his talk with Steve who was talking about Bucky and his _totally stupid_ assumption they were banging, and not to mention that training session with Bucky right beside him, and okay yeah no, training floor was not an ideal location.

Rooftop it is, then. He could just fire some arrows directly into the sky above him, letting them all land in a pattern of some sort. Yeah, that sounds better.

He compacts his bow and shoves it into a duffel bag, as well as some arrows. He calls the elevator, waiting impatiently as the number of floor ticks up, then gets in and mashes the highest number, just to spite Jarvis.

When he steps out onto the roof, he's disheartened to see that Sam has apparently already claimed the sky, flying about and testing his new set of wings, courtesy of Tony.

Damn it. No awesome “C.B” initials being made now from his arrows.

He walks out onto further onto the rooftop anyway, and sends up a wave to Sam, who returns a salute. Clint decides to drop his bag near the railing, then leans over and looks down at the people below. It's a lot busier, the lunch hour rush currently happening, with people hurriedly walking along the streets and impatiently crossing the road.

Clint is tempted, for a moment, to use some of the targets down below. Not the people, of course, but the middle of a few signs, maybe sending one through the flag waving outside a very conservative building.

Hill might possibly kill him if he does that, so he decides he wants to live and leaves the bow and arrows beside him. Eventually, Sam comes down next to him, knees a little heavy on the landing.

“Hey man,” Clint greets, turning to face him. Sam lifts up his goggles and folds in his wings.

“Sup,” is the reply he gets, and Clint casually shrugs.

“Huh. Seems like something is up,” Sam prods, and Clint sighs, sinking down into the railing.

“All you patriotic people need to just _not,”_ Clint sighs exasperatedly, and Sam raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Don't think I haven't seen that completely red, white and blue design you got,” Clint threatens, and Sam throws up his hands and laughs.

“Wasn't my idea,” Sam defends, and Clint rolls his eyes.

“No, really, Tony did it as a joke. Calls me Cap’s pet bird,” Sam explains, and Clint looks at him doubtfully.

“Aren't you?” Clint counters, and Sam gives him a blank look.

“Very funny.”

“I know I am.”

It falls into silence, and Clint is just about tempted to ask Sam if he wants to have a round of training that involves fetching his arrows from the sky, because he needs his mind to focus on _something_ , but Sam speaks up first.

“He’ll be fine, you know,” Sam tells him, and it takes Clint a moment to figure out exactly who Sam means.

“Oh my fucking God,” Clint whines pitifully, completely collapsing onto the railing, arms dangling over the edge. “Please don't tell me all of you think we’re a _thing.”_

“Please don't tell me you think you aren't,” Sam replies, in the same tone.

“We’re just bros!”

“Bros who give seriously shitty subtle heart eyes at each other, yet neither seems to realise.”

“I'm not giving Bucky ‘heart eyes’, what the fuck,” says Clint, completely perplexed now because - yeah, what the _fuck._ He is _not._ Also, this is really not working out in Clint’s favour of - y’know, just not thinking about the whole situation.

Sam sighs in pity, and Clint has a better idea. Instead of Sam catching the arrows, he can just be shot by them.

“Man, get your shit together,” Sam tells him, and Clint flings up an arm and gives him the middle finger.

“Go fuck yourself.” Sam just laughs and _yep he’s found a perfect target to shoot at._

“Just bros, oh man, for someone so sharp you’re pretty dumb,” Sam mocks, obviously amused by the whole situation and _how is this his life. Why is this his life._

“No really, go fuck yourself before I shoot you,” Clint warns, and Sam’s grin doesn’t fade in the slightest. Asshole. However, he does seem to follow Clint’s advice, throwing up a hand in a wave before his wings spread out again.

“Yeah, you better walk away,” Clint mumbles, watching as Sam steps onto the edge, then falls back into the open air with a dumb smug smile on his face.  

Clint stays up there for a while, eventually beginning shooting into the sky aimlessly, the arrows coming back down and landing around him.

Shooting has always helped him, has always calmed him, and by the time it’s getting near sunset, he’s got a much clearer head.

* * *

 

So he likes Bucky Barnes.

That’s a bit of an issue, probably. Not that he can help liking Bucky, of course, but his earlier points where it’ll just turn into one big mess because combining two pretty messed up people equals _disaster._

Which is pretty much the one word to describe Clint Barton’s decisions in life, but he tells himself that things have worked out pretty okay so far, no matter what.

Besides, people get crushes all the time. Not every time does something come out from them, after all. They just have dumb stupid butterflies in their stomach for a bit, and their mind wonders off to think about other things that involve them, but they get over them eventually. Just like he will, he reassures himself.

He heads back to his room, not really sure where else to go because honestly at this point, he suspects that he’ll be cornered by everyone chanting something like “admit you're dating!” if he goes anywhere without privacy. He shakes the mental image from his head, heading over to his little fridge in the corner of his room.

Snacking on some cold pizza, he thinks more about his situation with Bucky. So, great, he’s accepted it. First step in the process of dealing with it or whatever, as his therapist would probably say.

Oh man, what was he mean to tell them at their next appointment?

_Yeah hey it’s been a while. So we got a new teammate, he gave me his very nice smelling jacket when I was cold, which sounds pretty creepy but I think it works in helping me calm down. But then I gave him my jacket, so now we both just have each other’s. Oh, and we also make a great duo for shooting things, and I might just possibly like the guy._

He considers it for just a moment, because the reaction he would receive would be _amazing._ But then the following questions would definitely not be, so he considers it’s something he can maybe just not bring up at all.

He settles down on the couch, flicking the TV on and turning on the subtitles, taking out his hearing aids. He's fallen asleep on the couch enough times, and usually he's left his hearing aids in, and it never is a fun thing to wake up to.

Deciding to go for a re-run marathon of Dog Cops, he lays down, pillowing his head with his arm. About two episodes in, the doubt and worry begin to creep in.

 _God damnit_ , he thinks, because now his brain is thinking about if they do manage to find something still left in Bucky, in his mind, they probably won't let him go. They'll prod and poke and they won't stop or back off, like Clint had told him.

And what if they trigger the Winter Soldier and can't get him back to Bucky Barnes? Steve sure as hell wouldn't be happy about it. Neither would Clint be, really.

But Bucky is, as Natasha said, a big risk factor. It’s been almost a year since Steve finally caught up with him, since he finally decided to come in. It’s nearly been a whole year already for Bucky of people poking and prodding and trying to get the Winter Soldier to come out and ‘play’.

And once he had finally been cleared safe for the meantime, what had Clint encouraged? For him to go back in there and get poked and prodded at _again._ As if any new tests would bring different results.

He falls into an uneasy sleep eventually, nightmares plaguing his mind.

* * *

 

So it's kind of a surprise when, in the morning Clint is down at the kitchen and shoving an unhealthy amount of sugary cereal into his mouth, Jarvis announces Bucky’s return.

He hasn't got his hearing aids in, so the alert comes through on his phone. Relief hits him in a crashing wave, and he lets out a deep breath, smiling just a little. Steve is out on a morning run, but Clint has no doubts he’ll be back at the tower as soon as he can be.

He finishes his bowl of cereal and lazily throws it in the sink, heading back to the elevator to go up to his room. He texts Jarvis while he stands in the elevator, who is an actual contact in his phone labelled as “Snarknet”. Because seriously, Jarvis has to be one of the snarkiest persons he's ever met. Or, yknow, robot or whatever. But there's not much comparison in that field.

 **_Where's Barnes?_ ** He texts, and gets the immediate response.

**_Sir Barnes is on the training room floor, and has requested that Steve Rogers sees him. Shall I alert you when they are done?_ **

“Sure,” he says aloud, because screw it, he's gotta give that jacket back eventually anyway, right? Besides, it'll be good to see him, see where his head’s at - see if he can help Bucky, especially after being the one to encourage him to go get checked out.

The elevator doors open and he steps out onto his floor. The jacket lies there in plain sight, and Clint glances at it before heading back to his couch. Usually he'd rather be down shooting at the range or something, but giving Steve and Bucky their personal time seems like his best choice.

He finds himself unable to settle, unable to focus even on Dog Cops. He stands up and paces, because what the hell is he meant to actually say to Bucky? _Hey, here's your jacket I kind of stole for a bit. It smells really nice. But anyway, how did the poking and prodding go?_

He's tempted to just throw the jacket at him or something, just like last time. But maybe throwing things at a guy who’s just been poked and prodded at is not a smart decision.

 _You can maybe just not talk to him right now,_ he tells himself, and well, okay that works too. _Besides,_ he reasons, _he probably isn't up for seeing you._

He's proven wrong about half an hour later, when he's finally settled down onto the couch, and sees the flashing light of his phone go off. He reaches for it, and stares at it blankly for a moment while the words attempt to sink in.

 **_Sir Barnes wishes to see you,_ ** Jarvis messages. Clint tosses the words about in his mind because okay, there goes the plan for not seeing him today then. And also, why does he want to see Clint?

There’s too many questions and really no answers at all, but before he even properly think about it, he’s moving to grab the jacket, then heading towards the elevator. He has to wait for it, and _goddamn what the hell did someone just press all the floor levels what the fuck why is it taking so long._

Eventually the elevator hits his floor, and he gets in with the order for Jarvis to take him up to wherever Bucky is at. It’s only when he doesn't hear his own voice does he realise he's left his hearing aids in his room. _Whoops._

His lip-reading should hopefully get him through, at least. Although, it can be a hit and miss sometimes, and he certainly has enough embarrassing stories of those incidents happening.

The elevator begins to move before Clint can think of stepping out and grabbing his hearing aids. It stops on the landing pad floor, which doesn’t surprise Clint at all. He steps out, his fingers rubbing along the jacket’s fabric as he walks outside.

Bucky turns to face him as he walks up, and Clint notices immediately that the poor guy looks exhausted. He doesn’t look murderous or anything though, so that’s probably a plus for Clint.

Clint doesn’t know what to say, and he really can’t control his mouth when there’s stupid butterflies in his stomach and the urge to just say something, _anything,_ to cover the nerves.

“This is yours,” Clint says, and is proud of himself for sticking out his arm and handing it over when he’s close enough, instead of just, y’know, launching it at him. Bucky takes it, holding it awkwardly and Clint realises he still has Clint’s own jacket on.

Bucky notices at the same time, and manages to remove Clint’s jacket without dropping his own. He hands out Clint’s jacket, who takes it, and _yep_ , it does indeed smell like Bucky, with just a faint whiff of pizza. _Score._

“Sorry,” Bucky apologises, “I didn’t really wash it, it probably smells like me instead of pizza and dog.”

“That’s completely fine by me,” Clint replies and _damn his mouth damnit damnit damnit oh man._

“I, uh, washed yours though,” Clint fumbles out, trying to cover over the fact that he’s just admitted to liking something more than the smell of pizza.

And there’s no way that Clint just read “ _that’s a shame”_ on Bucky’s lips. No way.

Bucky must pick up on his confusion, because he does a little head tilt - _and dear God that shouldn’t be so attractive -_ and he scans Clint for a second, then seems to come to a realisation.

Clint stands there awkwardly as Bucky turns his head to the side and says something. Clint, frustratingly, doesn’t catch it and he’s about to tell Bucky that he needs to be able to see his lips, when suddenly Bucky turns back to face him and then nods to himself. Clint’s just about to ask what’s going on until Bucky’s arms rise.

His fingers twitch, and Clint looks to see his expression of concentration. Then his arms move in a circular motion, then makes a question mark with his right arm, and it takes Clint a second to realise that he’s just signed out something awfully close to _“sign?”_

Clint feels his eyebrows shoot up, but he nods.

“You know sign?” Clint asks aloud, and Bucky raises his shoulders, pulling a bit of a face.

“ _I think I remember army, people lost hearing a lot. Picked up some,”_ Bucky signs back, stumbling over a couple of the words, but is otherwise decently fluent. He’s also saying the words aloud - or Clint assumes so, seeing that his mouth is moving at the same time.

Clint nods again. “Gotcha. I’m sorry, I swear, I usually remember my hearing aids.”

“ _Don’t apologise,”_ Bucky signs, face serious.

“Alrighty, no apologising. I mean that’s fair enough considering the like first thing they teach you is never say sorry about it. But - nevermind, rambling,” Clint rushes out, taking a deep breath at the end. “Jarvis said you wanted to see me?”

Bucky looks completely baffled, then shakes his head a little.

“ _I didn’t ask,"_ and oh, okay then. _What the hell Jarvis, lying and leading a guy to a very awkward conversation?_ Tony’s going to get an arrow to one of his suits for this.

Clint’s mouth opens a little and he makes out a sound that says something like “ah.” He then gestures wildly behind him, towards the elevator, the nearest escape from this most awkward moment of his entire goddamn life. Seriously, escape by jumping off the balcony and catching himself with a grappling arrow is desirable. However, he has no arrows on him, or even his bow.

“I’ll just, uh, leave you to it then.”

He goes to turn around, heading back inside instead of going for the balcony, but feels a hand close around his arm as he does so. He goes tense for a second, then tries to relax and turn around as casually as he can.

Bucky looks frustrated for a second, his left arm moving, fingers twitching. He lets go of Clint with his other arm and signs out “ _I don’t remember.”_

Clint looks up at Bucky’s lips, who takes that as his indication to just mouth the words instead.

“Stay,” is what Clint sees, and then he sees Bucky’s right hand move to his chest, making a circular motion for _please._

Clint feels a little breathless, but he turns his whole body back to face towards Bucky, watching carefully as the other smiles a little _and aw heart no you are not 16 years old come on we've been through this._

“So I think even Jarvis is trying to hook us up,” Clint laughs, a little awkwardly, trying to break the realisation they have no idea what to do next.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “ _Even Sam thought we were a thing.”_

 _“_ Try Natasha _and_ Steve. Steve, do you know how awkward that is?” Clint groans at the memory coming to surface.

“ _Steve thinks we’re together?”_

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. Was askin’ about our swapped jackets all suspiciously,” Clint answers.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “ _What did he say?”_

“Uh,” Clint stammers, “That we were good for each other?”

Wow, because _that_ doesn’t sound like he’s trying to encourage this whole relationship thing. Bucky just nods solemnly, and Clint has no idea what to make of it. _He probably thinks it’s all bro-stuff._

“ _Shame you washed the jacket. Would have smelled nice.”_

“It would’ve smelled of pizza and dog, and at least now it smells like clean and fresh laundry soap.” And look, if Clint maybe decides he’s probably going to wait a while before washing his own jacket, that’s his problem. He's not a fan of the smell of laundry detergent anyway.

Bucky just shakes his head, arms rising again but then faltering, lowering back down. There's something hesitant in Bucky’s face, eyebrows furrowed slightly and mouth twisted a little, trying to work something out.

“What?” Clint prompts, elbow bumping Bucky slightly. “Are you okay?”

Bucky nods jerkily. “ _’m okay. They couldn't find anything.”_

Clint doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing, but Bucky doesn't seem to be focusing on it. The evaluation, surprisingly, doesn’t really look like it’s on his mind.

“So?” Clint asks, prompting him to continue.

Bucky looks down over the streets for a moment, taking in a deep breath. His fingers twitch again, which Clint assumes he wants to sign something.

“Write it down,” Clint suggests, and Bucky’s head whips towards him, eyebrows raised.

“ _What?”_ He signs back, but then seems to figure out what Clint had meant anyway. Bucky’s weight shifts from side to side, and he hesitates before he takes a step away.

He points at Clint, then holds up a hand, and mouths the same word that he had been unable to sign. _Stay._

“I'm staying right here, yep,” Clint affirms, “Where the hell are you going though?” He questions as Bucky takes steps towards the inside of the tower.

Bucky shoots him a quick look, and just gestures for him to stay again, and then after a moment adds the sign “ _don't look.”_ Clint huffs in pretend annoyance, waving Bucky off and looking down at the streets again. The jacket is still in his hands, and he decides to slip it on.

He knows it's his own jacket and he _knows_ that he probably shouldn't feel so reassured by one clothing item, but the thought that Bucky’s worn it and has been looking after it and it still kind of smells like him is just… Ridiculously comforting.

_Stupid dumb crush, Barton. Get it together._

Sitting down on the ground, he lets his legs swing over the side of the building. He's tempted to take a peek over his shoulder at just what Bucky is doing, because he has no idea what to expect. Is it maybe a joke - is Clint just acting in some stupid prank and playing along obliviously?

Maybe Bucky has actually been triggered, or something. After all, Clint didn't see Steve after he had talked to Bucky. Maybe Bucky was behind him right now, pointing a gun at his head.

_Now that's just stupider. Stop it._

Despite his traitorous thoughts, he keeps his back turned to the tower, watching the people below. He thinks back to when he had talked to Bucky up here, trying to help him with the whole brainwashing situation and then throwing his jacket at him because he was cold.

And then Natasha had welcomed herself into his room and pretty much proclaimed they were dating. And then Steve had asked. And even Jarvis - or, rather probably, Tony - had assumed _something._

It's easier to freak out about the questions of where he stands with Bucky - where he _wants_ to stand - without the other around. Because around Bucky, those questions just don't matter as much. The interactions are easy and relaxing and questionless. And now that Bucky is inside, doing whatever the hell he’s doing, it’s a given that Clint is now freaking out a little.

Damn everyone for bringing his attention to the fact he is possibly very attracted to Bucky Barnes. Damn Bucky, particularly, for looking that attractive.

He lets out a groan, despite being unable to hear it. It just sounds so _dumb._ Some dumb ass crush on some ex-Hydra brainwashed secret assassin who’s like over 90 years old. He’s a tragedy, as Natasha constantly says to him.

Bucky finally, _finally,_ walks back out. Clint knows he’s behind him, turning his head to see Bucky’s reaction to doing so. The other just has a flutter of a smile, so Clint takes it as his go-ahead to stand back up and face the other properly.

There’s something in Bucky’s hand, and Clint recognises it as one of Tony’s custom tablets. Tony won’t even let him touch one, so how Bucky currently has one in his hand is kind of really rather impressive.

“What’s that for?” Clint asks, gesturing down to it. Bucky passes over the device, the screen currently only white and blank as Clint takes it.

Words begin to appear though. “I was worried I might mess up what I actually want to say and end up asking for plums or something,” the words state, and Clint looks up to see that Bucky is speaking, the words appearing on the screen.

“Your sign is really pretty good,” Clint reassures, but Bucky shakes his head.

“I just want to make sure on this one thing, that’s all,” Bucky explains, and Clint raises his shoulders a little.

“Your call, man,” Clint assures him, and Bucky takes a deep breath in, then lets it back out as Clint awaits for the words Bucky wants to say on the screen.

“I was thinking you and me could hang out,” Bucky suggests, and Clint’s pretty sure his heart is going to beat out of his damn chest at this point.

Bucky doesn’t wait for Clint’s ability to speak to demonstrate itself, barreling on. “We could go down to that new pizza place or something. Or hang out down in the range, whatever you’re cool with. Or if you don’t even want to hang out that’s cool too.”

“Pizza’s good,” Clint is able to manage to say, and he sees Bucky’s mouth turn up into a smile.

“Pizza it is. Tonight, then?”

Clint nods. “I’m free.”

“We can wear each other’s jackets while we exchange our history, how about that?” Bucky proposes and _God yes._

“I warn you, you won’t be getting it back for a while. Or rather until it stops smelling like you, either one.”

_And shit, that sounds a little bit creepy. Damn it, mouth._

Thankfully, Bucky just laughs and _hahahaha Clint Barton doesn’t need a heart in his chest anyway pft._

“As long as you promise to return my jacket when it smells like pizza and dog, that’s fine by me,” Bucky reassures **,** and Clint grins, extending his hand.

“Deal,” Clint promises, and Bucky is now definitely smiling a proper smile.

There’s three different ways that Bucky says it. He speaks it aloud, which Clint can’t hear, but the tablet does and writes it out for him. Not to mention the added sign language.

It’s clear as day. There’s no misinterpreting, no mistakes.

“Will you go out with me, Clint Barton?”

And considering the conversation, Clint knows that if he wants to, he can play off the invitation platonically, like they are just fooling about right now. But he _doesn’t_ want to, he doesn’t want to play it off just platonically.

He wants to think that he’ll take Bucky’s offer on another level, that they’ll go out and get pizza and find out more about each other than simple mission files could ever say. He wants to imagine that he’ll be able to hold Bucky’s hand eventually, cusp the back of his neck and tangle his fingers in his hair as they kiss.

 _Thinking a little bit ahead there, Barton,_ he scolds himself.

One step at a time.

He passes over the tablet to his left hand, then raises his right, clenching his fist and moving it up and down, signing.

_“Yes.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading! All comments/kudos appreciated, and prompts/messages all welcomed on my brand-new tumblr: hawksanddorks.tumblr.com  
> Come say hi! :)


End file.
